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By Root 643 0

’s garbage, snapped the lid in place, and returned to Jefferson, sweating, certain her smile at the guard was recognized as forced and insincere, and went directly to her tiny office off the Hispanic reading room. She sat quietly for a few minutes collecting herself, then ventured out, carrying the envelope she’d brought from home. The yellow crime scene tape was gone; the stacks and upper gallery were open again. Dolores swiped her magnetic card in the door’s slot and entered the stacks. She paused and looked up the narrow stairway leading to the upper gallery, where Michele Paul’s body had been. She felt light-headed and grabbed a shelf for support. The wave of weakness passed as quickly as it had come. She walked deep into the stacks. She stopped in an area where file boxes containing donations to the collection rested on shelves. Crudely handwritten labels identified the source of the materials. Dolores knew that the contents of most of the boxes had been given a cursory examination upon their arrival, and would probably sit there for years before anyone found the time to give them a second look.

She opened the top to a box marked AARONSEN COLLECTION, slid her manila envelope beneath the dusty, yellowed papers in it, replaced the top, and returned to the reading room, where Consuela Martinez had just emerged from her office.

“Back to some semblance of normality,” Consuela said, indicating where the crime scene tape had been.

“What a relief,” Dolores said.

“Dolores, the police have asked me to accompany them to Michele’s apartment to look at what library materials he might have had there. Annabel Reed-Smith is coming, too. I thought you might join us. You’re familiar with what Michele was working on.”

“I couldn’t,” Dolores said. “It’s too … too spooky going there.”

“I understand,” Consuela said. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” Dolores said. “I suppose this is just now hitting home for me. There’s a murderer around, probably in this building, Consuela.”

The division chief’s mouth became a tight line. “I know,” she said. “I know it only too well.”

Chapter 16

Andre Lapin, the Library of Congress’s director of security, had held four similar jobs at federal agencies over the past twenty-four years. Like other federal law enforcement officers, including the hundred-plus members of the library’s own police force, Lapin had trained for ten weeks early in his career at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Georgia. He was a whippet of a man, compact, thin, active even when at ease. Bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows formed perfect tents above his eyes.

MPD detectives Nastasi and Shorter had been meeting with him for the past half hour in his office adjacent to the twenty-four-hour command center.

“… and so Mr. Vogler attacked Dr. Paul?” Nastasi said.

“It appeared that way,” Lapin said. “Always hard to pin down who starts a fight, but I was pretty sure Vogler threw the first punch. Of course, you never know what prompts a guy to hit somebody. In Paul’s case …”

The detectives cocked their heads and looked at the security chief.

“In Michele Paul’s case, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d said something to nettle Vogler.”

“What did Vogler say about it?” Shorter asked.

Lapin consulted his file on the incident. “All he said was that Paul insulted him.” Lapin looked up from the folder and smiled. “Some insult. Lots of rumors about Paul messing with Vogler’s wife.”

“That so?” said Nastasi. “Vogler was cuckolded?”

“Can’t prove it by me, and that’s not the way it’s usually described, but that’s what I heard. Vogler and his wife divorced.”

Shorter, who was writing his own notes, said, “Any other incidents like the one between Vogler and Paul?”

“Physical assaults? No.”

“Did you personally know the deceased?”

Lapin nodded. “Not well, but we had a few conversations over the years. I didn’t seek him out. Frankly, I never liked the guy.”

“You and the rest of the library,” Nastasi muttered.

“True,” said Lapin. “Anything else I can do for you today?”

“Yeah,” Nastasi said. “What’s new with the stalker?